Recently, I was deeply moved to learn about the acquisition of the gun that killed Emmett Till by the Museum of Mississippi History and the Mississippi Civil Rights Museum. This announcement stirred a torrent of complex emotions and thoughts within me.
It’s been seventy years since the murderers of 14-year-old Emmett Till, J.W. Milam and Roy Bryant, evaded justice, later boasting about their actions in Look magazine. Emmett’s mother, Mamie Till-Mobley, fought a relentless battle to bring her son’s body back to Chicago. When she finally was able to view the brutal mutilation inflicted upon him, she chose to share that horrifying image with the world. The circulation of Emmett Till’s photographic evidence through Black media outlets sparked outrage and mobilized a generation, serving as a catalyst for the Civil Rights Movement.
As thoughts of this history washed over me, I found myself returning to the significance of that gun. While visibility did indeed foster social action, Mamie Till-Mobley adeptly dictated the terms of that visibility. Emmett’s images resonated within Black spaces, where individuals shared a common susceptibility to white violence. Aware of the power of witness, as a mother and activist, she recognized that visibility could be strategically shaped and deployed.
Fast forward to 2012: following the fatal shooting of 17-year-old Trayvon Martin, George Zimmerman was acquitted and subsequently profited from selling the weapon used in the murder for $250,000. While Black communities mourned, marched, and organized, Zimmerman’s actions reflected a continuation of systemic injustices. The emergence of the Black Lives Matter movement was a response to a series of tragic deaths of Black individuals at the hands of law enforcement and vigilantes. Despite the protests, the scourge of racial violence persisted, echoing through history.
As we find ourselves in the tumultuous year of 2025, amidst heightened racism and increased assaults on educational and cultural institutions under the Trump administration, it is crucial for us to examine the intersections of cultural work within our socio-political landscape. As a researcher and curator committed to challenging the supposed neutrality of dominant institutions, I am left pondering the implications of the “museumification” of the gun that took Emmett Till’s life. Will the museum’s claim that its display will narrate “the whole story” truly encapsulate the complexities involved? Wheeler Parker, a cousin of Till, expresses hope that this display will bring “closure,” yet we must tread carefully in our expectation of objects as vessels for such reckonings when violence and oppression remain prevalent.
In light of these reflections, I have compiled a series of probing questions that I continue to grapple with while navigating these challenging topics. These questions may serve curators, educators, patrons, collectors, administrators, and students as they endeavor towards ethical practices.
What does that gun mean?
What does it signify for an individual to possess it? For an institution to possess it?
Does the inclusion of this gun in a museum alter our understanding of the events? If so, in what ways? If not, why?
How does exhibition practice correlate with anti-Blackness and social justice?
What is the exhibition value of this gun as an object?
How does the display value of the gun compare to merely presenting a written account or a visual representation, such as a photograph or illustration?
In what ways does this gun relate to other forms of collectible racist material culture, like blackface memorabilia or Klan robes?
How does the gun interact with the evidence discourse prevalent in history museums?
Is seeing that gun necessary? What are the reasons for your belief?
Who is most affected by the representation of that gun?
Are depicting other lynching tools—such as guns, ropes, knives, or kerosene cans—essential when discussing the broader context of lynching? Why or why not?
Does displaying this gun empower it more than other guns currently used in shooting incidents? Why or why not?
What focus does the gun direct our attention toward? Does it lead us toward the violence of lynching itself, the identities of the murderers, or the destructive nature of white supremacy? Might it also divert attention from these larger issues?
Should the gun be destroyed?
What considerations would prompt the museum to contemplate destroying the gun?
What significance lies in annihilating lynching instruments?
Could the act of destroying tools of anti-Blackness hold exhibition value? How so, or why not?
Can the gun be viewed as a fetish object? If yes, what implications arise from that perspective? Conversely, what consequences follow if it is not interpreted as such?
Could this gun serve as a memorial? If so, how? If not, why?
How does the museum environment impact the interpretation of this gun?
How might museum spaces enhance or impede the scope for shared vulnerability?
In what ways can exhibitions function as ethical or unethical forces?
To reiterate: What does that gun signify?
